


Brain Plague

by TheRisu



Category: OFF (Game)
Genre: Gen, Original Character(s), Prequel, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 00:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17672924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRisu/pseuds/TheRisu
Summary: A couple of old drabbles that connect into a lore theorizing concept I thought about once, and still think about sometimes.





	1. Soft Breeze

Virgil never liked the mines.

But beggars couldn’t be choosers.

‘It’s no better out there’, they would say. And they were right. He hated it, but they were right.

He was starting to get used to it anyway. Kicking dirt and little rocks to keep himself entertained, sometimes just wandering aimlessly. He couldn’t get too far, however. He had already been warned. It was easy to get lost.

‘Don’t you know? People has died down here. That’s why this place is abandoned. If you get too close to the darkest depths, the ghosts will find you.’

They would say.

And, for Virgil, it was utter bullshit.

But one thing was certain, and it was that it was indeed easy to get lost in those treacherous tunnels. And that he would probably die of exhaustion or starvation while helplessly trying to find the way back.

The abandoned mines were horrible. But it was no better out there.

Sometimes he would inevitably wonder what would happen once they would run out of supplies. There seemed to be enough, and the group wasn’t too big. But nothing could last forever.

Then someone would have to go back above and see if they could bring more, he supposed. And then maybe they would get some news. Probably bad. Probably horrible news.

One would think that Virgil’s well-being was the most important thing for the other refugees, because he was just a child. A child that had been left alone thanks to the atrocious effects of a world in shambles. But, unfortunately, that was not the case, as society was rotting as quickly as the ground on where they were still struggling to stand. Therefore, Virgil was nothing but a burden. An useless weakling that would most likely die in a matter of days.

Those who had warned him about the dangers of the mines, who were still showing some signs of concern, were his only remaining relatives. An uncle, and two cousins. And their concern didn’t even go very far. They would just warn him, but then would make no further effort to ensure that he had listened.

Either way, Virgil’s willingness to explore was already starting to fade, along with all the other childlike colors that were slowly dripping out of his haggard face.

He couldn’t tell how long it had been.

He couldn’t tell how long it had been, but if his intuition and calculations were right, perhaps a week. And that was why he had decided to carve exactly seven lines on the rocky wall of the corner in which he had been sitting rather morosely. To then strike them through as the week presumably finished, and eventually add a new one with the following day.

It became a habit. A habit nobody minded, because it actually helped the situation a little. It made their makeshift bunker feel less like an unsettlingly timeless void.

Virgil never thought he would miss his old life in the farm.

That old life he used to complain so much about, those boring barns and that uneventful ruminating.

Before his father was assimilated into the war, and his mother got caught in the collateral damage.

What was he even doing there?

What even was the point? Was there a point at all?

That was what he had been wondering that one day he suddenly stood up and walked away from the group, while they were sleeping.

Was it really that bad out there?

Or at least, was it _still_ that bad?

Maybe. Maybe it was. But then he would just peek out for a second, and then go back in.

Just for a second. He just wanted to feel it for a second. He just wanted to feel that gentle breeze again.

He was so absorbed in such hopeful prospect that he was completely taken by surprise when a rough hand grabbed his wrist and forcibly stopped him and dragged him back.

No, those were not hands. Those were not rough hands, those were rough claws.

Virgil turned and recognized the features of one of the refugees, despite how heavily distorted they were suddenly looking, and how heavily distorted his voice appeared to be as well when he spoke and asked _‘Where are you going?’_ , deadly dust coming out of his mouth as he did so.

And Virgil almost replied, but continued to just stare in dread as this creature in turn continued speaking and added _‘You all are taking too long to die, and I’m getting impatient.’_.

And he had no idea of what that meant, or what was happening. He was too terrified to think coherently, so the first thing that occurred to him was biting one of the monster’s hands so it would let him go, and then punch it in the face and run.

But he couldn’t run.

He couldn’t run because, as soon as he punched it in the face, he actually managed to _eject_ it out of the refugee’s body, in the form of a blackened column of smoke that soon disappeared, merging itself with the dark.

The poor man fell on his knees, breathing agitatedly, and then naturally started asking a lot of questions.

But Virgil was once again absorbed.

Absorbed in the mysterious gleam that was now emanating from the hand with which he had punched the monster.

_Was it really no better out there?_

Maybe. Maybe it was.

But he was tired.

Tired and suddenly teeming with a prominent bravery, that could only have come from what he had just achieved.

It made him even think that, if he tried hard enough, he could get rid of those ghosts from the darkest depths of the mines.

But he was tired of the mines.

He was tired of the mines, and he was positively getting out of the mines.

He didn’t even tell anyone in advance. None of them truly cared about him, so he saw no need to care about them.

He only returned to fully conclude the task of marking the days, because it would have been a shame to leave it incomplete when a month had just ended.

So he returned. Just for that.

Just to carve the last day, and then strike through the last week of January.

And then, when everybody was once again sleeping, he went to positively get out of the mines.


	2. Desperately Safe

Beatrice was very fond of the piano.

It reminded her of better times. When her mother was still around, and they would play and sing together.

Now it was only Beatrice playing and singing, because her father didn’t know how to play, and didn’t know how to sing either. And wasn’t really interested.

She still could remember how proud of herself she had felt when she managed to get the entirety of Chopin’s _Nocturne_ right, without a single mistake.

And she could also remember how not even that interested him.

At first she thought he was just inattentive. Unaware of his surroundings. That certainly would explain why he had put the piano in the library, of all places.

Wasn’t a library supposed to be quiet? Why would there be a musical instrument in there?

As an ornament, she supposed.

But, then again, maybe he simply didn’t want to look at it, as much as he didn’t want to look at the books. Because her mother enjoyed reading as well.

And they used to read together, too. But he wasn’t really interested.

Now it was only Beatrice reading.

The house had never been so lonely.

‘You have to understand. A lot of bad things are happening, and your father is worried.’

‘He has no time. There’s no time.’

‘You are safe, and that’s what matters. You should be grateful.’

Over and over again, Beatrice would keep hearing those words, or variations of those words. And she wanted to understand. She wished she could understand.

She knew they were in danger. She knew there was bad people that could hurt them, and that was why they had left the city.

But they couldn’t hurt them anymore, right…?

They were safe. And this new city was nice. Even though she hadn’t seen much of it, because he didn’t want her to leave the house. He had even locked the most trivial doors, the door to the kitchen, the door to the bathroom, every single door. It was like he was losing his mind. Like he was _sure_ something, someone would come for him.

And Beatrice couldn’t understand that either, but at least she was beginning to learn to live with it. The new house was nice too, and she knew where all the keys were hidden.

The library was big enough to not worry about running out of books to read. There were several that were hard to decipher, but it was okay. She could just take a break, and try memorizing another song on the piano.

Sometimes she would go to the balcony.

Her father would have probably killed her if he knew she would spend so much time in a spot as _specially dangerous_ as the balcony, but luckily he never found out. He was too busy, locked in his room, rationing the amount of times he could take a breath per day.

Beatrice liked the balcony, and the blissful ritual of leaving handfuls of seeds and watching the swallows approach. They were good friends.

They were very good friends.

It saddened her to think that soon winter would come, and they would fly away to warmer lands.

There was such a wonderful view, though. She could see the rollercoaster from there.

And it saddened her to think that her father would never take her to the amusement park, much less the rollercoaster.

But there was such a wonderful view.

But everything looked so distant, so out of reach.

The swallows finished eating and flew away, and for a moment she wished she could do the same.

For a moment, the possibility of abandoning her father didn’t affect her. Because she couldn’t even recognize him anymore. He was like a shell that had been emptied, and then filled again with nothing but fear.

But that would have been so cruel of her.

She just had to keep enduring it.

It would be over someday.

For now, perhaps the best thing to do would be to lock the door to the balcony again, so she wouldn’t have to think about the amusement park and the swallows that were getting ready to depart.

Would they even return?

She had heard so many people talking about a world in shambles, she couldn’t help getting worried.

And that worry showed quite clearly when she went back to the piano and learned a mournful song.

It took her just a while to get to play it fluidly.

And it took her even less to notice that someone was accompanying her with their own song, outside.

Beatrice stood up and scooted over towards the balcony door. She would recognize that chirping anywhere.

And indeed, one of the swallows had seemingly returned. But this chirping was a rather faint one, and Beatrice would promptly realize why.

This swallow had broken its wing, and couldn’t fly away with the others.

It was almost as if fate itself had listened to her prayers, and had left at least one friend for her to not feel lonely anymore.

But Beatrice wasn’t happy. On the contrary, she probably had never been so miserable before. This poor friend was going to spend a possibly brutal winter away from his family, and all because of her. Even if there was truly no proof of it, she was already blaming herself for it, wondering why she had to be so selfish.

Of course the swallow had no idea of what she was thinking about, and could only see her getting sadder, so it made its best to keep singing. At least one of them had to cheer up.

But, of course, that kept making her sad. She actually started tearing up, as she carefully picked the swallow up with both of her hands.

And it was then that it happened.

It was then that a mysterious gleam began to come out of this gesture.

And then, suddenly, the swallow’s wing was no longer broken.

It was so surprising that it just stood there, exchanging puzzled looks with Beatrice, before chirping more gladly and thankfully at her, and flying away.

Beatrice watched it leave with a smile, even though she was still sad.

But sometimes one has to be sad in order for others to be happy, and as long as they are, that’s okay, she concluded.


	3. Yesterday Was Better

Dante would have given anything to get at least one of those.

At least one bite.

They looked so good.

All those truffles, and those éclairs, and those macarons. Everything looked so heavenly that he couldn’t stop sticking his fascinated face on the window.

It was a shame that he only had a few coins in his pocket, and he was supposed to buy just some bread with them. So he sighed and kept walking.

Winter had been around for quite a while. A tender snowfall was adorning the streets, already covered in enough snow. In the distance, he could see the chimneys of the factory already emanating smoke, making the snowy scenery look just a little bit greyish.

Dante knew that his father would come home late again. He had been trying to take as many hours as possible, so they could keep affording food.

Considering the state in which the world had been, the most reasonable thing would have been to fix the economy issues instead of worsening them, but that was just how flawed and horrible reality was. It wasn’t just Dante’s family. All those workers, all their families were most likely starving.

What a wonderful winter.

What a wonderful winter this was, and would keep being for who knew how long.

It was such a relief that the streets were also so full of garbage, because then they would never run out of things to burn to keep themselves warm. Dante remembered to gather a good bunch of it after getting the bread, just in case, and then finally returned.

His mother was waiting for him with a smile.

She was always waiting for him with a smile, welcoming him with a smile. Talking about how lovely the weather, and other insignificant things, were. With a smile.

She seemed to be disconnected. She seemed to be ignoring the fact that they were all crammed in a small house, that said small house was pretty much falling apart, and that getting food was getting more and more difficult.

But Dante knew that this wasn’t the truth.

‘Yes, I already know. I already know that our life isn’t the best, but how would it help to keep complaining about it? We should rather smile at those nice little things, son. We should rather smile at them because one day they might be gone.’

That was what she had said, that one time he decided to question this behavior. And Dante could understand that, but he still couldn’t help feeling sad.

It was heartbreaking to see his mother getting happy about not dying of starvation yet, something that shouldn’t be this common, this much of a casual topic for her.

He was conflicted.

It was nice of her to stay optimistic, even in such terrible conditions, which he knew she was doing mostly for his sake. But, at the same time, he was seriously wondering if it was doing her any good.

Her smile did at least brighten in a more genuine manner when he handed over the newly brought garbage for her to immediately throw into the furnace. He then sat down next to her, and they both rejoiced in its warmth.

Burning things down had never been so pleasant.

Yet, Dante would keep wishing he could help more. Perhaps get a job at the factory with his father, even though he was just a kid, and a very emaciated one at that.

His mother seemed to guess his thoughts, because she proceeded to softly caress his back.

For a moment, he found himself pondering about something he had heard earlier in the streets. Something he had noticed older people would say the most.

‘Things were so much better before.’

And he almost believed it.

Dante almost believed it, because they used to have a bigger and prettier house before. They used to have plenty of food before.

Granted, he had never had sweets in his life, but that was because his father never liked them, nor how they allegedly affected children. But they _could_ have afforded them.

Yet…

Was that really correct?

Was the past better?

Even if it almost seemed so, how could that people be so sure of it? What exactly made them think things couldn’t actually get better than how they used to be? Why was it always the past? Why not the future?

And then he realized.

The future could be better, but that would never be acknowledged until it would be left behind. Things were only better when it was too late. When they were already lost.

Because no one ever appreciated them while they were still there.

_They should rather smile at those nice little things._

_They should rather smile at them because one day they might be gone._

And right now, he was smiling at his mother, because she was definitely the nicest thing he could have.

And then she noticed, and smiled back at him as she stood up to get dinner ready, and then remind him to clean the furnace later.

Which Dante would do without hesitation, since he wanted to help so badly.

Even though the ashes were kind of annoying in how they could get everywhere.

But it was okay.

He did it as soon as the furnace was turned off, right before bedtime. Or rather, as soon as it cooled down.

It was okay. He had his own ways of making it fun.

Like taking a handful of ashes with one hand, and then slowly spill them down on the other. He didn’t know why that was so entertaining for him. It just was. He could do it all night.

And maybe he would have indeed distracted himself doing it all night, if it wasn’t for an unexpected event catching him off guard.

Those had been ashes.

They had been ashes when he took them. They had been ashes when he kept them caught in his hand, and as he was getting his other hand ready to spill them on it. But then, when he started spilling, what came out of his hand didn’t look like ashes at all.

It was too white, too crystalline…

And too sweet-smelling to be ashes.

Dante’s eyes had never been so widened.

There it was.

He couldn’t even begin to comprehend how, or why, but there it was.

In its most basic form.

_But there it was._

And if that wasn’t a sign of how the present could be just as ‘better’ as the past apparently was, then what else could it be?

Dante beamed, and rushed to wake his mother up.


	4. Brain Plague

“Did you see him? He’s so small… I wonder how old he is…”

“Younger than us for sure! I wonder what kind of miracle he made to end up here too!”

“I wonder if he’s as strong as we are, because he doesn’t really look like it.”

“Oh, will you just give him a chance before making those assumptions?”

“But he’s so small…”

“And will you just stop using the word ‘miracle’? It sounds corny.”

“How? I think it sounds great and I’m going to keep using it. What are you gonna do about it?”

“Will you two just stop fighting? This isn’t the time…”

The little boy clutched his teddybear against his chest, and gave a timid step back. The figure next to him bent down and put a hand on his shoulder, in an attempt of a reassuring gesture.

“It’ll be okay, just come in…”

And he did come in, but not without taking a deep breath first.

And, just as he expected, all three children raised their heads to look at him, and made him hide behind the figure.

“Children, this is Hugo. He will be joining us today in the Utopian Project. You all will be working together from now on.” it said.

“What can he do?” asked one of them children, rather cheerfully despite his emaciated appearance, and then looking at Hugo “What can you do?”

“Um… well, I…” he muttered, since the figure was also looking at him, and thus implying that he had to answer himself “I made this…”

And then he held his arms out to show them the teddybear.

“Huh. Doesn’t sound very impressive…” began another, haggard looking child, only to get interrupted by yet another, mournful looking one.

“Stop being rude!” she said, making him frown.

“If you let me finish, I would have said ‘Doesn’t sound very impressive, but I’m sure it will help anyway’.” he grunted.

“Making things _does_ sound impressive to me, though.” continued the mournful girl, with a bit of a smile “Of course you would start with small things, but who knows, you could make a lot of other, bigger things if you practice…”

“Yeah! Like a dog, or a cat…” mused the emaciated boy “I always wanted to have a pet…”

“Making living things must be harder, but I guess there’s no harm in trying, right?” added the haggard boy “Maybe we could do it together…”

“Hopefully.” intervened the figure, reminding them of its presence “All of you have a lot of potential, dear children. Perhaps even enough to completely restore the world.”

The other children had already heard that before, but it was the first time for Hugo, so he couldn’t help an utterly astonished expression as he processed it.

“That much…?” he inquired.

“It is a gift.” replied the figure “Some might call it a plague, but it’s because they can’t understand it. There’s not much that can be done against the fear of the unknown, but we _do_ understand. And we _do_ appreciate your abilities.”

And that was another thing the other children had already heard before, but it was the first time for Hugo.

And it would have been really scary to think that suddenly so much people, almost the _whole_ world was depending on him.

But just by seeing the other children’s hopeful smiles as he looked back at them, he was already feeling like there was nothing to worry about.

Like he had just made three friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally intend to keep the Divine Comedy names. They were going to be placeholders until I'd get to name the children properly, but then they grew on me.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
